known she would. Somehow he’d known she would be both shy and generous, that the taste of her would be fresh, the scent of her airy. It was impossible that he’d only met her hours before. It seemed the woman he held in his arms had been his forever.
And it was thrilling, hotly arousing, to know his was the first kiss she would remember. That he was the only man in her mind and heart to hold her this way, touch her this way. He was the first to make her tremble, his was the first name she murmured when needs swirled through her.
And when she murmured his name, every other woman he’d ever held vanished. She was the first for him.
He deepened the kiss gradually, aware of how easily he could bruise or frighten. But she came so suddenly alive in his arms, was so wildly responsive, her mouth hungry and hot, her body straining and pulsing against his.
She felt alive, brilliantly alive, aware of every frantic beat of her own heart. Her hands had streaked into his hair and were fisted there now, as if she could pull him inside her. He was filling all those empty places, all those frightening blanks. This was life. This was real. This mattered.
“Easy.” He could barely get the word out, wished fervently he didn’t feel obliged to. He was trembling as much as she, and he knew that if he didn’t pull back, gain some control, he was going to take her exactly where they stood. “Easy,” he said again, and pressed her head to his shoulder so that he wouldn’t be tempted to devour that ripe, willing mouth.
She vibrated against him, nerves and needs tangling, the echoes of sensations thumping through her system. “I don’t know if it’s ever been like that. I just don’t know.”
That brought him back to earth a little too abruptly. She didn’t know, he reminded himself. He did. It had never been like that for him. “Don’t worry.” He pulled away, then rubbed his hands over her shoulders, because they were tense again. “You know that wasn’t ordinary, Bailey. That ought to be enough for now.”
“But—” She bit her lip when he turned and wrenched open the fridge. “I made—I’m making iced tea.”
“I want a beer.”
She winced at the brusque tone. “You’re angry.”
“No.” He twisted off the cap, downed three long swallows. “Yes. With myself, a little. I pushed the buttons, after all.” He lowered the bottle, studied her. She was standing with her arms crossed tight at her waist. His jeans bagged at her hips, his shirt drooped at her shoulders. Her feet were bare, her hair was tangled around her shoulders.
She looked absolutely defenseless.
“Let’s just get this out, okay?” He leaned back against the counter to keep his distance. “I felt the click the minute you walked into the office. Never happened to me before, just click, there she is. I figured it was because you were a looker, you were in trouble and you’d come looking for me. I’ve got a thing about people in trouble, especially beautiful women.”
He drank again, slower this time, while she watched him soberly, with great attention. “But that’s not it, Bailey, or at least not all of it. I want to help you. I want to find out everything about you as much as you do. But I also want to make love with you, slow, really slow, so that every second’s like an hour. And when we’ve finished making love, and you’re naked and limp under me, I want to start all over again.”
She had her hands crossed over her breasts now, to keep her bucking heart in place. “Oh” was all she could manage.
“And that’s what I’m going to do. When you’re a little steadier on your feet.”
“Oh,” she said again. “Well.” She cleared her throat. “Cade, I may be a criminal.”
“Uh-huh.” Calm again, he inspected the sandwich makings on the counter. “So is this lunch?”
Her eyes narrowed. What sort of response was that from a man who’d just told her he wanted to make love with her until she was limp? “I may have stolen a great deal of money, killed people, kidnapped an innocent child.”
“Right.” He piled some ham on bread. “Yeah, you’re a real desperado, sweetheart. Anybody can see that. You’ve got that calculating killer gleam in the eye.” Then, chuckling, he turned to her. “Bailey, for God’s sake, look at yourself. You’re a polite, tidy woman with a conscience as wide as Kansas. I sincerely doubt you have so much as a parking ticket to your name, or that you’ve done anything wilder than sing in the shower.”
It stung. She couldn’t have said why, but the bland and goody-goody description put her back up. “I’ve got a tattoo on my butt.”
He set the rather sloppy sandwich he’d put together down. “Excuse me?”
“I have a tattoo on my butt,” she repeated, with a combative gleam in her eye.
“Is that so?” He couldn’t wait to see it. “Well, then, I’ll have to turn you in. Now, if you tell me you’ve got something other than your ears pierced, I’ll have to get my gun.”
“I’m so pleased I could amuse you.”
“Sweetheart, you fascinate me.” He shifted to block her path before she could storm out. “Temper. That’s a good sign. Bailey’s not a wimp.” She stepped to the right. So did he. “She likes scrambled eggs with dill and paprika, knows how to make iced tea, cuts tomatoes in very precise slices and knows how to tie a shank knot.”
“What?”
“Your belt,” he said with a careless gesture. “She was probably a Girl Scout, or she likes to sail. Her voice gets icy when she’s annoyed, she has excellent taste in clothes, bites her bottom lip when she’s nervous—which I should warn you instills wild lust in me for no sensible reason.”
His dimples winked when she immediately stopped nibbling her lip and cleared her throat. “She keeps her nails at a practical length,” he continued. “And she can kiss a man blind. An interesting woman, our Bailey.”
He gave her hair a friendly tug. “Now, why don’t we sit down, eat lunch, and I’ll tell you what else I found out. Do you want mustard or mayo?”
“I don’t know.” Still sulking, she plopped down in a chair.
“I go for mustard myself.” He brought it to the table, along with the fixings for her sandwich. “So what is it?”
She swiped mustard on bread. “What?”
“The tattoo? What is it?”
Embarrassed now, she slapped ham over mustard. “I hardly see that it’s an issue.”
“Come on.” He grinned, leaning over to tug on her hair again. “A butterfly? A rosebud? Or are you really a biker chick in disguise, with a skull and crossbones hiding under my jeans?”
“A unicorn,” she muttered.
He bit the tip of his tongue. “Cute.” He watched her cut her sandwich into tidy and precise triangles, but refrained from commenting.
Because she wanted to squirm, she changed the subject. “You were going to tell me what
